No Saints in Kansas

by Amy Brashear

  Yesterday Mary Claire told me that Agent Dewey made her take a lie detector test. Not sure if that’s a lie. Was happy to talk, though. She’s still giving me the cold shoulder.

  Want to talk to Bobby. He avoids me at school. Why?

  “Carly?” Mom shouts again.

  “Coming,” I yell back.

  I close the notebook and shove it in my desk drawer. Maybe I should rip that page out. I wonder what Agent Dewey or Sheriff Robertson would think if they read those words. I wonder what Karen or Audrey would think. Or Mary Claire, for that matter. Or even Asher.

  Mom is addressing place cards for the Great Turkey Extravaganza that the Junior League of Southwest Kansas is hosting; ladies from Garden and Holcomb and as far as Dodge and Liberal are coming. She’s been helping to plan the event for months. Up until ten days ago, she was excited about it. Since the tragedy, she’s hardly mentioned it.

  “I can’t believe I did that,” she mutters as I walk in, ripping the card in half and throwing it in the wastebasket beside her desk.

  “Did you need me?” I ask.

  She nods. “Can you take Asher to practice? I’ve got to finish up these place cards.”

  “Does that mean I’m not grounded anymore?” I ask. I feel a prickle of excitement. Even though it’s only 4:15 p.m., the sky has been cloudy all day and it’s already dark out.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m not giving you an inch of freedom. Straight to the gym and back.” She fixes me with a stern glare. “And since my car’s still in the shop, you’re going to have to take the Porsche. No funny business.” I wince a little inside. The last time I drove the Porsche, I ended up in the jailhouse.

  “I’ve got to go. I’m going to be late,” Asher hollers from the living room.

  “Whose was that? The one you threw away?” I ask, glancing at the trash.

  She looks up at me and says in a whisper, “Bonnie’s.”

  Asher and I drive to the school in silence. It’s the first time the two of us have been alone together in a while. I keep stealing glances at him as I drive, but he stares out the passenger window. I want to penetrate his shell. I want to ask him about his conversation with the police. But I can’t bring myself to do it. He’ll have to open up to me in his own time, when he’s ready.

  When we pull up, there are a bunch of boys waiting in the parking lot, huddled in their winter coats. They aren’t horsing around. They’re shivering.

  “The coach keeps the gym locked now,” Asher says. “We have to wait for him to open it up.”

  He doesn’t have to explain why, and I don’t have to ask. Then he stiffens. I follow his gaze. Bobby’s truck has just pulled into the lot. I squint and can see that he’s at the wheel. Bobby is dropping his little brother off, just like I’m doing. Just going about his business. But Asher squirms.

  Bobby scares him now. He thinks Bobby did it. Or he’s scared of me, and he thinks I did it. Maybe he thinks Bobby and I did it together. Or maybe I’m just being ridiculous.

  When my brother reaches for the door handle, I reach for him.

  “Asher? Can you—”

  “Tell Dad to come pick me up when practice is over,” he interrupts. “Okay?” He hops out of the car and slams the door shut, bolting for the pool of light at the locked gym entrance.

  On my way back home, I’m about to jump out of my skin. I can’t keep going on like this. I don’t want to go home. Maybe I could drive around for a little while. I’m already grounded, so what could my parents do? Ground me again? I can always make up an excuse. I could go fill the gas tank; that would kill some time. If my mom questioned me about it, and I told her the truth, I wouldn’t be lying. But still, somehow, she’d know. She always does. Like she knew when I took a ride with Mary Claire. It’s as if she has a built-in lie detector—

  I jerk in the seat.

  Lie detector. Mary Claire.

  In a flash, I’m gunning the accelerator. If I hurry, I can get to the courthouse in Garden before 5 p.m.

  I can hear Agent Dewey’s voice as I race up the stairs at the end of the long ground-floor hall. He’s loud. He sounds mad. Maybe he’s arguing with someone. His words echo across the walls.

  “I’m convinced it’s somebody local who had a grudge against Herb. I have a feeling . . .”

  “And are we just basing everything on a feeling rather than theory or fact?” I hear Agent Nye grumble.

  When I reach the second floor, I run toward the sound of their voices. The offices are all brightly lit, bustling. The place still seems to be open for business, at least. They must hear my footsteps, because Agent Church peers out the door. He’s wearing that same blue suit and striped tie. I wonder if he owns more than one, the way my dad does.

  “Need something?” he asks.

  “Um, I think I need to talk to Agent Dewey. It’s about his feeling,” I say. Agent Church smirks and stands aside. “Alvin, there’s a little girl here to see you,” he says.

  Giving him the evil eye, I walk past him through the doorway.

  “Carly, what do you want now?” Agent Dewey asks from behind a desk. He rolls his eyes at Agent Nye, who’s slouching against the wall. I almost feel like telling them I don’t want to hang around three tired-looking men in suits any more than they want to hang around with me. The room reeks of cigarettes, though nobody is smoking.

  There’s an empty chair in front of Agent Dewey’s desk. I sit without an invitation to do so and ask him, “Do you honestly have no leads?”

  “Listen to me, Carly,” he says, motioning for Agents Nye and Church to leave us alone. He shoos them with the back of his hand, but they both laugh and stay put. “I have plenty of leads. And I have to follow those leads. It’s like a big jigsaw puzzle. Get it?” He’s softened his voice, and his tone is condescending. “I’m looking at everyone. I have a long list of suspects, and I’m doing my best in narrowing them down until I have the culprit.”

  “Can I see the list?” I ask.

  “Not protocol.”

  Agent Nye laughs.

  I whirl around. “What’s so funny?” I demand.

  He bites his lip and looks at Agent Dewey. “Come on, Alvin, you’ve let that fella and his woman see the list and more.”

  I turn back to face Agent Dewey.

  “Not protocol,” he repeats, glaring at Agent Nye. I take a deep breath and ask the question I’ve come here to ask. “So what do I have to do? Take a lie detector test?”

  He blinks and stiffens, as if he’s just awakened from a nap. With an unreadable glance at Agents Nye and Church, he tilts his head at me and smiles. “Will now be good?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-seven

  So I’ve solved one mystery today.

  Mary Claire wasn’t lying.

  Agent Dewey escorts me to a room with no windows. It looks like the interrogation room in Holcomb, furnished only with a table and two chairs. But it’s scarier, somehow. Maybe because this time I know my parents and brother won’t be waiting for me when I’m done. Or maybe because I’m not going to be recorded here. I’m going to be hooked up, analyzed, examined.

  There’s a black rectangular box in the middle of the table. It’s got cords coming from sockets, cords that will soon be attached to me.

  Agent Dewey straightens the graph paper on the machine and tightens the needles. He’s already explained that they will move up and down as I answer yes-or-no questions.

  Those are my only choices. Yes or no. It should be easy. But I already feel anxious.

  I sit facing a wall as a deputy attaches sensors to my body. The sensors will record my respiration, heart rate, and blood pressure. He puts two air-filled rubber tubes around my chest and abdomen to measure the rate and depth of my breathing. A blood-pressure cuff is wrapped around my upper arm. Fingerplates are slipped around my middle and index fingers.

  “The agent
will ask you ten questions, and you will answer yes or no to each question. Your responses will be recorded as well as how your body changes during the questioning. Now, don’t worry, everyone has been asked a version of these questions,” the deputy says.

  It won’t make an alarm sound if I speak out of line—but I won’t; I have nothing to hide. Agent Dewey coughs, drinks from a coffee cup, and lights a cigarette. He turns on the machine. The spindles go up and down, measuring my blood pressure, spiking when I get nervous or anxious or scared. I think I’m going to wet my pants. Will that short out a circuit and electrocute me?

  “Okay, let’s begin,” he says, blowing smoke toward my face.

  Instead of saying a word, I nod, mainly because I don’t know if I’m allowed to speak or not.

  Agent Dewey takes a deep breath. “I’m going to ask you some questions. Please answer with yes or no; don’t explain, just respond. And no nodding—speak. Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  Agent Dewey: “Okay, question number one, is your name Carly Fleming?”

  Me: “Yes.”

  Agent Dewey: “Question number two, are you fifteen years old?”

  Me: “Yes.”

  Agent Dewey: “Question number three, do you suspect anyone of killing the Clutters?”

  Me: “No.”

  Agent Dewey: “Question number four, were you arrested Friday, November twentieth?”

  Me: “Yes.”

  Agent Dewey: “Question number five, were you born in 1945?”

  Me: “No.”

  Agent Dewey: “Question number six, were you born in Kansas?”

  Me: “No.”

  Agent Dewey: “Question number seven, do you know who killed the Clutters?”

  Me: “No.”

  Agent Dewey: “Question number eight, do you live in Holcomb?”

  Me: “Yes.”

  Agent Dewey: “Question number nine, did you help kill the Clutters?”

  Me: “No.”

  Agent Dewey: “Question number ten, did any of your friends kill the Clutters?”

  Me: “No.”

  Agent Dewey: “Question number eleven, is today Tuesday?”

  Me: “Yes.”

  Agent Dewey: “Question number twelve, did you kill the Clutters?”

  Me: “No.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-eight

  It’s Friday night. The gymnasium’s full. I’ve never seen the bleachers so packed. Everyone in town is here to support the Longhorns, and I know why. They’ve come because of Kenyon, because he’s not here. I duck away from my parents once we’re inside. Officially I’m still grounded, but they’ve given me permission to sit by myself or with any friends who come. They want to sit close to the floor. It’s Asher’s first game, after all.

  I want to be here for him, too, but I don’t want to be too close to a sweaty game I don’t care about.

  As I climb the steps, I search the crowd for Mary Claire.

  Instead I spot Sue Kidwell.

  Her eyes meet mine. I ignore the strange knot in my stomach and wave, and she waves back. She smiles. I make a beeline for her. She scoots to make space beside her on the bleachers.

  “Hi, Sue,” I say.

  “Hi, Carly,” she says.

  We turn to the court and sit in silence.

  The starting lineup is announced, and then the game’s under way. Asher is among the starters, but he and his team might as well be playing on the moon. I can’t force myself even to watch, let alone care. Guiltily I turn to Sue and ask if she wants anything from the concession stand.

  “My treat,” I offer. Dad gave me a whole five dollars for snacks. He and Mom knew I wouldn’t want to watch the game with them, and maybe they didn’t want to watch the game with me, either.

  She smiles again. Her eyes are tired and puffy. “A Coke would be nice. Thanks.”

  I nod and hurry away. The knot in my stomach is back, and again my eyes search the crowd for Mary Claire. Why isn’t she here?

  The concession-stand line starts at the baseline. The grown-up couple in front of me—probably the parents of some player; I recognize them from around town—are talking about Truman Capote, the author of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, the strange little man from the courthouse who Aunt Trudy knows. Well, claims she knows. My ears perk up.

  The man chuckles with his wife. “He’s interviewing everyone, hon. Should I talk to him? I didn’t know them, but I can probably come up with a couple of stories. I could be famous!”

  I bite my lip to keep from screaming. I’m disgusted. Stories? Meaning lies? Just so he can see his name in print? I glare as they take their food. Stepping up to the counter, I order two Cokes and a bag of popcorn.

  “Need a hand?”

  I turn, and Landry is there behind me.

  My heart flutters for a second. Maybe I should have sat with my parents. I wasn’t expecting to see him here, though I should have. I’m so disoriented I just want to hide. Landry’s cheeks are ruddy, his eyes bright, as if he just slept twelve hours. His jeans and shirt are crisp. His hair is wet. His coat smells fresh, as if it just came from the Laundromat. He dressed up for the occasion. I wonder why. “Yeah, a hand would be nice,” I say.

  He takes the two bottles and I carry the popcorn, sampling it as we walk back to the bleachers. But when he spots the empty space next to Sue, he pauses.

  “Doesn’t look like there’s a whole lot of room,” he says, his voice flat. “I’ll just give this to Sue. See you later, okay?”

  Before I can respond, he hands off the pop, first to Sue and then to me, and hurries back down the stairs.

  Sue barely even looks at him. Does Landry think that Sue and Nan Ewalt did it? They were the ones who found the bodies, after all . . . I wince. The thought is unbidden, an unwelcome guest, but there it is just the same. It sickens me. Maybe Sue thinks that Landry and I did it. Maybe they both think Bobby and I did it. Whoever really killed Nancy and her family must be laughing right now. They’ve poisoned all of Holcomb.

  I sit back down next to Sue. She sips, her eyes on the game. I place the bag of popcorn between us.

  “Thanks for the pop,” she says finally.

  I nod, looking at her, sipping my own bottle. Holcomb scores a basket. The bleachers erupt in cheers.

  “Carly, I don’t really want to talk about it,” she says out of nowhere.

  I don’t answer.

  She turns to face me. “It’s like I’m living in a dream or watching some movie and I have a part to play.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” I say, remembering how I felt around Nancy, how I was always playing a role.

  “I don’t know if you do,” she says.

  I nod. I don’t look away.

  “She was my best friend,” Sue adds.

  “I know.”

  “The last time I saw her—I mean, alive—was right before you came over to tutor her . . . We got in a fight.” She places the bottle on the floor and puts her hands over her face. “I can’t get it out of my head. Did you know that Mr. Clutter, Mrs. Clutter, and Kenyon were gagged—but Nancy wasn’t? I bet Nancy talked to them. I bet she screamed for someone to help her, and no one did. Sometimes, I think I hear her screaming.”

  My throat is tight. I try to speak, but the words stick. I wipe my eyes and put my own bottle down. “It’ll be okay,” I manage.

  She turns back to me and looks me dead in the eyes and asks, “Will it?”

  I nod, not trusting myself to respond.

  “My mom wants me to talk to that strange man, that writer from New York,” Sue adds. “But I can’t. Why is he here, anyway?”

  I search my brain for something to say, something that will reassure her. I feel sick again, knowing how badly I wanted Sue to move away and leave Nancy without a best friend.

 
“Maybe for the truth,” I finally tell her, even if I don’t believe it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-nine

  Hubbard’s Drugstore has a line out the door Monday morning. There are exactly ten copies of Time magazine when I enter, and exactly two copies when I leave. But I got the third. I make sure to get to school early and sit on a bench near the front office. Pulling the magazine from the paper bag, I flip to page 18.

  national affairs: in cold blood.

  Seth bursts through the front doors with Alex, a blast of cold air trailing them. Seth spots me and of course repeats a rumor that’s blowing through town like a snowstorm. The killer is someone local because of some kind of con that was happening at the farm.

  “Everyone knows Bobby did it. I just wish he would confess already. I think we should do the town a favor and take care of him. We don’t even need a trial,” Alex adds.

  My grip tightens, my fingers wrinkling the pages in anger. A group surrounds Seth and Alex, spewing what they all feel, that Bobby killed the Clutters.

  “All of you shut it,” I say. “He’s been exonerated by the KBI.”

  “Big word for such a pretty girl,” Seth says, erasing even the slightest trace of fondness I ever felt for him.

  “Honestly, stop. You know it’s not true, none of it. You’re just embarrassing yourself.”

  “Embarrassing ourselves? You’re embarrassing yourself. You think we even care what you think . . .Yankee?”

  My jaw drops. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  “They’re only nice to you because of me,” he goes on with a sneer.

  “Nancy only pretended to be your friend because you were my girlfriend. Karen told me that you tutored Nancy in math, and she thought you were a drip.”

  “You’re a jerk,” I say. “If you even had—”

  The doors swing open again, and I clamp my mouth shut.

  It’s Bobby.

  He keeps his head down as he walks right by us, not saying a word.

  Hot dogs and chips are on the menu for lunch. I want to ask Mary Claire why she wasn’t at the basketball game Friday night, except it’s the first time I’ve seen her all day, and I assume the conversation is going to be all about the fresh suspicion surrounding Bobby. She always jumps right in at lunch. I ask about Bobby first to get the subject out of the way. But Mary Claire brushes me off; she has no opinions on that. She’s squirmy with excitement. She wants me to guess whom she met yesterday.